Natasha's Story
by shuri2002
Summary: After Civil War, Natasha is left to pick up the pieces of what's left of the Avengers, while she struggles with her dark history.
1. Chapter 1

"...Papa says he got _malo_ in him..."

The song bleeds from the radio in the high window, fluorescent lights glaring from overhead. 3:00 AM in Tony's labs looks pretty much like any other time on the top floor of the Avengers Facility; lights bright, floor and shelves covered in tech dating anywhere from the 1960's to futuristic, and paper plates of half-eaten shawarma and pizza littering the worktables lining the walls.

I come here, sometimes, on nights when I can't sleep. I've known Tony for long enough that his clutter doesn't bother me. It's peaceful, sort of. At least compared to the last few days. Nobody else comes in here except Tony and sometimes Peter when he's here, and it's dead quiet, except for the distant humming of the arc reactor that powers our massive home.

I lean against the wall and slide down it, until I'm sitting on the ground, hugging my knees. Softly, I sing along to Camila Cabello. "...He got me feeling like, _oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-oooh-ooh..."_ My voice cracks on the high notes and I fall silent, allowing myself, for the first time, to think about what happened.

Tony and Steve fighting...Rhodey paralyzed...Bucky Barnes reappearing and then disappearing again (I still don't really trust him, but I know he means a lot to Steve)...still no sign of Thor or Bruce ( _Don't think about Bruce_ )...and so many new players. I couldn't tell you who half of them are. I vaguely remember the King of Wakanda dressing up as a cat, and someone else growing and shrinking a lot before passing out and being carted to jail. _We're not what we used to be,_ I think to myself. The days of us teaming up to fight off alien invasions are over. We're divided, half of us on the run from the law, some of us desperately injured or missing entirely. And those of us left over aren't the same at all.

Tony stalks the halls of the facility at night, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, muttering to himself when he thinks we can't hear him. Wanda has nightmares. Regularly, since she was freed from prison. She screams and thrashes in her sleep, haunted by the dead. Her dead brother, her dead parents, and every death that we're responsible for. It tortures Vision, I can see it in his eyes. He barely talks anymore, doesn't cook like he used to, doesn't sit on Wanda's bed and make her laugh until she cries like he used to, doesn't touch her hand or her hair in the same soft way that he used to. Instead, he parks himself at a desk every day and busies himself cleaning up the mess we made. And Rhodey - Well. Rhodey struggles just to walk.

And me? I hold our little group together. In some weird way, I feel responsible for what happened at the airport. I've always taken care of my boys, looked after them, and I messed up. During the day, I'm strong. I'm optimistic. I keep on trucking and pull everyone else along with me. During the night, I come to Tony's labs, listen to whatever's on the radio, and feel desperately sad. I cried once. Two days ago. I let myself think about Bruce ( _Don't think about Bruce_ ), and the last thing he said to me. " _I've got a compelling reason not to lose my cool."_ Less than four hours later, he was gone. Not dead, I tell myself for the hundredth time, just gone. He flew off on one of Tony's QuinJets to God-knows-where, leaving me with one more thing to add to my list of things I can't think about.

Thinking about my life right now is incredibly exhausting, and before long my eyes glaze over and I fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_I woke to the acrid smell of smoke stinging my nose. I sat up. Red flames danced around my bed, licking my blanket and causing the wood floor to crackle and shift._

 _My mind raced. No point in getting out of bed, I'd burn my feet off. No point staying in bed, the flames were already consuming the slats that held my thin mattress off the ground. I glanced to the right. The nearest window was nearly six feet off the ground, and small, and besides, I'd never make it all the way across the room. My only option was up._

 _I stood up, legs shaking in my thin nightgown, perched on the edge of my headboard. I reached up, feeling around on the ceiling, not taking my eyes off the flames. There. I felt what I was looking for: a strip of iron was bolted to the ceiling, with just enough room between the metal and the wood to get a good hold on it, so thin that most would not see it for what it was – a handle. I gave a sharp yank, and a portion of the ceiling no bigger than my pillow released and swung downwards. I pulled myself up through the trapdoor and lay, panting on the flat rooftop of my house._

 _I stayed in that position for several minutes. Every so often, the roar of the inferno below would be joined with the cracking of a support beam, or the rumble of a floor giving way. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I noticed the large, jagged hole that took up much of where our roof had once been. Smoke poured out of the wreckage, and I realized what had started the fire._

 _High-flying planes circled the city of Stalingrad, every so often dropping small dark packages on the houses below, causing a loud_ whoosh _when they landed as the firestorm engulfed another block. Although I could barely see the planes, I knew what was emblazoned on each of their tails: the national flag of the Third Reich, the swastika a symbol of the war that for nearly two years had been tearing apart my world, my country, my family…_

 _My family._

 _In horror, I peered through the hole. Everything was on fire. I could dimly make out the shapes of furniture, a table, and maybe a bed, before the smoke clouded my vision and sent me reeling towards the ledge in a fit of coughing._

 _My family._

 _Surely, they were dead. The firebomb, while probably not meant for our house, had most likely killed my entire family on impact. My mother, my father, even my little sister. I pictured their bodies burning like firewood somewhere below me, and fought back the urge to vomit. Tears stung my eyes, clouding my vision. I stumbled to the edge of the roof and looked down. It seemed that several off-duty soldiers had taken it upon themselves to perform search-and-rescue in several of the rural homes, while the fire department tried to save the city. I watched, emotionless, as two men ran up to our house. I heard them knock on our door, pause, and then break a window._

What was the point of being rescued, _I thought,_ if my family's gone? _I knew what happened to orphans in the Soviet Union. They were plunged ruthlessly into the foster care system, being recycled from family to family, until they finally grow up, or die._

 _Nobody fooled themselves with the thought of adoption._

 _I stepped to the ledge, my toes curling around thin air. I didn't want to wait for the Red Guard to realize that my family was beyond help, or that there was still a little girl standing alone on the roof. I took a deep breath, and held one foot experimentally off the roof. The cold air whipped around my leg, causing all the hair on my body to stand on end. I took another breath and started to lean forward._

 _With a bang, the trapdoor flew open. A man stepped onto the roof, his arms outstretched in a placating manner. Instead of the khaki brown uniform typical of the red guard, this man wore all black, except for a crimson patch in the shape of an hourglass on his arm. His face, flickering in the firelight, looked strangely sinister._

 _"Natalia?" His voice was hoarse, probably from the smoke. "Natalia Romanova?"_

 _I nodded mutely._

 _"My name is Agent Bezukhov. I'm here to help you. I need you to step off the ledge, towards me."_

 _I pulled my leg back onto the ledge, but I didn't step off. "Who are you?"_

 _"My name is Agent Bezukhov. I want to help you. Please, Natalia, step off the ledge."_

 _"I don't want to." My voice cracked._

 _"We don't have a lot of time, Miss Romanova. I need you to help me out. Step off the ledge."_

 _"No." I extended my leg again._

 _"Natalia, how old are you?"_

 _"I just turned twelve." I closed my eyes, exhaled, and leaned forward again._

 _"Miss Romanova, the people I work for believe we can use you. You're a smart, talented young lady who has fallen under unfortunate circumstances. If you come with me, you won't have to go into the foster care systems. No orphanages, no paperwork, just…step off the ledge."_

 _I nodded my head, turned to him, and slipped on the edge of my nightgown. As I fell, I met his eyes for the first time. Completely expressionless. I registered just the smallest bit of disappointment before I hit the frozen ground, and my vision went black._


End file.
